


ADMIN is not ADMIN

by Sheilacasmam



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst, Avenger Reese, Hurt/Comfort, Interrogation, Kidnapping, Love, M/M, Major Original Character(s), Mystery, Out Of Character Finch, Science Experiments, Torture, Violence, Whump, harold whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-19 18:42:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14243439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheilacasmam/pseuds/Sheilacasmam
Summary: Harold has behaved in an unusual way for days. He says things he would never say, he dislikes sencha green, he doesn't limp anymore, even Bear seems not to recognize him. John can't imagine what is going on, until Harold's life is in danger and needs surgery: in that moment, John shivers terrified, and not because of his wound.





	1. Different

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, here is another weird story. I hope you'll enjoy it, let me know what you think. ^_^

John's steps echoed in the hall of the abandoned library followed by the patter of Bear's paws. It was 9 in the morning: the daylight seeped in through the wide windows of the corridor, running over the walls covered in books. Finch was at his desk as usual: he was so immersed in his work that he didn't even notice the two silent guests' arrival, until the dog started behaving in an odd way.

As soon as Bear drew near Finch, he suddenly stopped and backed away from him, showing his teeth with a menacing growl.

“Bear, what are you doing?” John scolded him while the dog started barking and yanking his leash. “Bear!”

With an incomprehensible look on his face, Harold got up of his chair and crouched at Bear's side, as if he were oblivious of the risk he was taking. He observed the dog with the curiosity only a child would have and with a slow, tender movement he caressed his head. John noticed an odd astonishment in Harold's eyes and if he wouldn't have known him, he would have surely thought that his partner was seeing a dog for the first time in his life.

As soon as he felt that gentle touch, Bear calmed down and with a soft yelp licked Harold's hand, until he moved along the corridor.

John frowned. “I don't know what's wrong with him.”

“It's nothing, Mr Reese. Bear is a good dog.”

“Any news about our number?”

The two men turned to the picture of a smiling Afro-american with a moustache: the glass board was covered in notes about the man who had been missing for at least a week.

“Not yet, unfortunately: The Machine hasn't found any match. It seems that Henry Gale from Minnesota disappeared into thin air.”

“It can't be possible, your Machine keeps every inch of the city under control.”

“Maybe She has a problem with facial recognition. I'm working on it.”

“Here.” John handed him a cup of his favorite beverage. As taken by surprise, Harold addressed him a wide smile and sniffed the scent that drink released. “Oh, thank you. What is this?”

John turned to him with a sincere concern on his face. “What? I bring it to you every morning, Finch: sencha green tea, one sugar.”

Harold blushed and detached his eyes from the tall man in a suit, _shaking his head._ “Of course. Sorry Mr Reese, I believe I've slept too little and worked too much last night.”

Harold sat down and typing fast on the keyboard took a sip of his tea, but for a moment John thought he had spotted something uncommon flashing in Harold's eyes: it was _disgust_.

“Finch,” he added right after: “Did I put too much sugar in your tea?”

Harold lifted his light blue eyes to his. “No. Why do you ask?” he replied briefly, but John noticed he was holding his breath.

“You're being weird today. Is there anything wrong?” He asked, the anguish pressing on his chest.

Harold remained silent for a while, his face unperturbed. “The tea is excellent as always, Mr Reese. I rather wonder why we are lingering on such superfluous issues instead of devote ourselves in saving the numbers.” he replied taking another sip, this time a longer one.

Still unconvinced, John observed him carefully: he hadn't noticed yet that his lower split lip had healed. He studied his desk, too. The objects on it were in order, at their place as always, but there was one more.

“Why aren't you wearing your glasses?” he asked skeptically, pointing at his round spectacles ordinately folded next to the monitor.

“I'm short sighted, Mr Reese. I don't need them to work on my computer from close up.”

“I see with pleasure that your health is improving, Finch. I've never seen you shaking your head before. I reckon it's quite painful for someone who has metal prosthesis between his vertebrae, isn't it?” John drew near him with an accusatory look that made Finch goggle and move backwards, flatting his back on the leather armchair.

“You're _different_.”

Harold opened his lips to reply to that accusation, but he wavered for a while. “All right. The pain in my spine had got worse, I wasn't able to bear it anymore. So I decided to speak to a...” he paused, trying to find the word that didn't come to his mind. “... A physiotherapist. His treatment really helped me, he prescribed me such effective medication that sometimes I can even forget about the pain. This is one of my lucky days, I guess.”

John's face unclenched with a sigh of relief. “Why didn't you tell me that?”

“I thought it wasn't a relevant topic, moreover I didn't have any intention to bore you with my health problems.”

“You know well that you can talk to me about anything, Finch.” he replied with a soft, caring tone of voice.

Harold remained unperturbed for a while, then he hinted at a shy smile while his hands got back on the keyboard, fast and secure.

“I'm afraid I can't do anything for Henry Gale at the moment, but we have just received a new number, Mr Reese.”

“Of course. What's it about?” The former CIA agent asked, glad to finally hear some familiar words come out from his lips.

Everything was okay as always, after all. Was it?

 

 


	2. A New Number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold is on the verge of telling Reese a very important truth, when their number gets in trouble and needs immediate help. John is in serious danger, Harold runs to him (yes, he doesn't limp) but his help attempt almost turns into tragedy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a furious Reese, I warn you in case you don't like reading about heinous actions. But you know, when someone dares hurting Finch, John becomes pretty brutal.

The black car whizzed in the streets of Manhattan. John was behind the wheel while Harold had been studying their strategy the whole ride.

“The building has a backdoor: Miss Morgan likes her routines and always exits from that doorway. The Russians are going to ambush her as soon as she sets foot out of the building.”

John couldn't help but spot a slight quiver in his voice. “You already said it twice. Relax Finch, I'm not interrogating you.”

He looked more nervous than usual, and that made John go crazy: with the corner of the eye he glimpsed his partner torturing his own fingers in anxiety.

“Why are you so nervous? It's just another number!”

“Can't you understand? They won't have the slightest qualm about killing that woman just to prevent her from telling everything she witnessed. We need to be there in time and eliminate them before they eliminate her.”

Reese goggled in surprise at those words and nearly took the wrong way: he detached his eyes from the street for a while and dumbfounded glanced at him: “Never had I heard you say something like this before, Finch!”

“What did I say?” he asked shily and with his big blue eyes he addressed him the most innocent look ever.

“ _Eliminate_ is not a word that suits your vocabulary, is it?”

“Oh.” he replied lowering his gaze. “I didn't mean to say so. I... I meant _stop_. I'm against violence.”

Reese veered at the crossroads and turned the engine off, parking his car at a safety distance from the objective.

An embarrassing silence fell in the cockpit, until Reese bursted out with a stare that Harold wasn't able to decipher: he saw an unconventional rage in his eyes. A worried rage, he would have defined it so.

“What's going on with you?” he began drily, making Harold startle slightly. “I can't recognize you anymore. You don't talk to me, you're inattentive, absent. Detached. You've seemed another person lately.”

Those words hurt Harold, who suddenly felt his cheeks flush in humiliation. “Oh, dear. What have I done wrong?” he said in the end, his eyes still full of an unjustified fear.

John's face became even gloomier, his incredulity heavier on his chest. “See? That's exactly what I mean. The light you have in your eyes when you talk to me, what you say, and above all _how_ you say it.” John ran a hand on his grizzled hair, lowering his gaze with a sigh, while a speechless Finch was observing him furtively, like a reprimanded child.

“Harold, I'm worried about you. Talk to me, please. Has anybody hurt you? I swear I'll help you.” He said, toning his voice down. What Finch heard was a kind tone, and now John's hand was resting on his shoulder. John cared about him, and he was making him suffer.

The guilt made its way in him, the weight of his mask became unbearable: he was tired to lie, tired to pretend, and he really needed help.

_What did he have to lose, after all?_

“John, I'm not wh...” In that moment their number came out of the backdoor: the words Harold had finally found the courage to pronounce remained pending in his throat, while four men had got off a grey van parked in the alley. They aimed at the woman, followed her and arranged themselves in order to surround her.

“I have to go.” Reese pulled his gun out of the pocket of his suit and loaded it promptly. He got out the car in a hurry and Harold imitated him, receiving immediately his partner's scolding. “Where do you think you're going? Stay here!”

He watched him go away: he reached the Russians, shot at one of them's kneecaps knocking him out, and in the confusion the woman managed to run away.

The Russians had a bigger problem now: get rid of the man in a suit. Harold felt something stifling grow inside him and pressing on his chest: it was _anguish._

John defended himself remarkably well, avoiding and blocking every fist, beating them in turn, using their own attacks against themselves. But they were still three men against one.

When one of them got out of John's sight and reappeared behind him, Harold shouted by instinct, even if too far to be heard.

His partner was hit behind his neck with an iron bar.

Finch opened his eyes wide in terror: he saw his friend collapse on his knees, his head swinging faintly, and surrounded by the three criminals he disappeared under their kicks.

Harold fought against the panic that paralyzed his limbs, until he found himself pulling the handle and opening the door: with a lump on his throat he ran fast towards him, forgetting to pretend to be crippled. His legs were agile and light like the wind, and his spectacles only blurred his vision. He threw them away, and with all the energy he had in his body he pounced on one of the aggressors. But despite all his courage, frail Harold had done nothing but bounce off the criminal's massive body. He stopped, turned slowly and glared at him. Curled up on the asphalt and splattered with blood, Reese had finally a short break: the three Russians' attention was all for the dapper, blue-eyed man. Harold backed up by instinct, realizing too late what the consequences of his action would have been. While one of them kept dealing with Reese, the other two approached the brave little guy.

Harold was grabbed by his collar with a sudden movement: a kneeing on his stomach made him lose his breath and roll his eyes back with a groan. He dropped down, bent on himself with an intense nausea. From behind, two strong hands grabbed him by his hair and blocked his arms behind his back. Harold tried to desperately wriggle away from that grasp, while a shadow loomed over him: the other criminal had picked an empty beer bottle up off the ground, shattering it on the edge of the wall. Some shards of glass fell to the ground, while the man held the neck of the sharpened bottle with a fierce grin on his face. “I'll take care of teaching you the good manners, you little bastard!”

Trapped in that grip, Harold couldn't do anything but stiffen and shut his eyes: a piercing stab in his abdomen cut off his breath, and helpless he felt the glass rip apart his vest and flesh.

Harold's crying became agonizing: his back bent backwards, the veins along his thin neck swelled for the effort.

At his friend's screams, John found a new energy imposed by despair. “Harold!”

The Russian launched the umpteenth kick, but this time John blocked it with both hands. John had the eyes of a man who craves to kill: he pulled his leg forcefully and made him fall to the ground, making him slam his nape into the hydrant on the sidewalk. Ignoring the pain that bruises and broken ribs caused him, he stood up.

He faltered slightly, cleaned the rivulet of blood that dripped from his nose with the sleeve of his suit, then ran to the two men who were torturing Harold.

He approached the man with the bottle from behind and snapped his neck with surgical precision. The lifeless man fell to the ground lifting a cloud of dust, while the last survivor was staring with wide eyes at that death angel in a suit. Reese scrutinized him with rage: he was still holding Harold under his slack arms. His friend's vest was stained with blood, his face tensed in a grimace of pain. Fighting against his shivering legs, the criminal let that body fall dead weight and ran away, fueling John's rage even more. He reached him, threw him against the wall and with a savagery he didn't know to own he grabbed his head and started pounding it against the wall repeatedly.

“Please... mercy...” he begged faintly, while the bricks were turning red.

“ _Mercy?_ ” That word made John's grip on his skull clasp in anger, beating him even stronger. “Have you had it of my friend?” John didn't stop: the criminal's face was almost unrecognizable. “Answer to me! Have you had mercy of him?” he shouted grabbing him by his collar with both hands, but those eyes were already absent, just like his pulse. He let him fall to the ground and with a labored breathing he took a look on his quivering hands splattered in blood, frightened by himself. Right after he lifted his head and with a stitch of anguish he moved towards Finch.

Curled up on the sidewalk, Harold was shaking like a leaf. He looked even tinier. The man who had been able to brutally kill three men alone bent down at his friend's side, and he took him between his arms with extreme gentleness. Harold flinched in pain, whining softly at every slight movement. He looked down at his hands, grasped on the red stain that was slowly broadening, and repressed a moan of fear at the sight of that warm, red liquid pouring from his flesh.

“I'm here now, I'm here...” John whispered to him easing down Harold's nape on his chest. He caressed his hair soaked in sweat, moving them away from his forehead, now soiled with the blood John had stained his hands with.

“I'm... sorry... you told.... told me...” he murmured with his sobbing.

“Shh, you've been brave, but don't do it ever again, okay? I'm taking you to the hospital, everything is going to be okay.”

Harold goggled in terror: pale and covered in cold sweat he detached a hand from his wound and grabbed Reese's sleeve desperately. “Please... no hospitals... no doctors... please...” he begged.

“Harold, everything is going...”

“No... please, library... library...” he muttered, while he was slowly losing the grip on reality: his eyes clouded, losing the focus on John's face despite the effort to keep his eyelids open.

“No Harold, stay awake... Harold?” John tapped gently on his cheek and shook his chin, but he was gradually losing consciousness.

“Dammit!” John didn't understand his friend's terror, but he decided to obey anyway: even ignoring what it could possibly be, he was certain Harold had a valid reason for that.

John let one hand slip under his knees and the other under his back: he lifted that body with no effort and ran away, heading to their shelter.

Sinking in the numbness of that reassuring hug, Harold closed his eyes: his muscles unclenched, the noises became distant, and everything faded into darkness.

 


	3. Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Harold wished before losing consciousness, John didn't take him to the hospital, but to the library in order to cure him. He soon finds the reason why his partner was so reluctant at the idea of being visited by doctors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with the translation of the last sentence, I hope it is clear after all. In case you have questions ask me! ;)

John climbed the stairs of the abandoned library in a hurry: a crown of dark red drops had marked their path.

A room of the building was designated as a bedroom: Finch always worked late and that shelter had become a real home for him. John would have never wanted to turn it into an operating room.

He kicked open the door: his hands were busy holding his friend's damaged body. Harold was unconscious; his thrown backwards head swung with every step, his thin legs dangled in the void.

He laid him on the mattress, the white blankets were soon stained. John grabbed his satin waistcoat, now soaked in blood, and tore it away: with a resolute gesture he popped the buttons, freeing the wound from the first layer of clothes.

“Hold on, Harold.”

He sat him down and with one arm under his he supported his bust to pull off his vest: his head fell heavily on Reese's neck, who found himself soaked in his sweat.

“Oh God, Finch...” John muttered distressed, feeling how hot his forehead was.

He finished opening his shirt, button by button, being more careful near the open cuts: the sleeves slipped along his arms, freeing his torso from the clothes. John laid him down on the bed, gently supporting his neck, but when his eyes fell on his bare abdomen he winced, and not because of the wound: a more disturbing detail had immediately jumped out at him.

Never like that time had the fear been so strong as to paralyze his arms.

John got up from the bed with a twitch and backed away from that stranger body, with a thousand questions in mind.

_Where is Harold?_

_Who is the man who now lies on their bed, who now stains the sheets with his blood?_

_Who is that impostor who has the exact same face as his Harold?_

_Or rather, what is it_?

The real Harold had a fine, soft down that followed the lenght of his abdomen to the navel: the only problem was that the man John had in front of him _hadn't any navel_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, thanks for reading. Your comments are gold to me.


End file.
